


Brittle Boned

by LutwidgeDodgson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, College, F/F, F/M, Hogwarts Professors, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Severus Snape Lives, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LutwidgeDodgson/pseuds/LutwidgeDodgson
Summary: Hermione Granger is 24 when the life she's so carefully crafted for herself after the war begins to unravel. After she abandons Ron, their home in London, and all of her friends to pursue further education in Paris, she finds out her new professor is none other than the snarky consummate survivor, Severus Snape. Maybe they can help each other find what they're looking for.





	1. Brittle Boned

"Pulse is slow, faint metronome on my left side,

beneath my protruding spine, you can hardly hear at night.

White flag, blindfold covering my sunken eyes,

and a line of rifles aimed at my sick mind."

— "Brittle Boned," Julien Baker

\------

"It's final, Ron. I'm leaving. And you can't come with me this time," Hermione Granger said firmly, her face unmoving. She stood near the door of their spacious London flat with a small knapsack near her feet.

Ron, clad in maroon pajama pants, had just pulled a plate from the cupboard, ready to pile it high with the breakfast Hermione cooked each morning. He was hungover—again—she realized, noting his glazed eyes, the way he shuffled into the kitchen. In the aftermath of her statement, he simply looked at her, bewildered. "But...why?"

"Things haven't been good for a while, you know that-" Hermione began. Ron cut her off, his mouth slack.

"We...we moved...for you. I did... everything you asked," The words poured from his mouth slowly, that molasses movement she knew meant he was stressed. She longed to go to him, to clasp his hands and comfort him and make things the way they were once. But she knew they wouldn't fit anymore. "Hermione, please, we're working on this. I know it's...not perfect, but we can be like it was before."

Hermione felt her stoic facade spasm in pain that felt almost physical. "It can't Ron. We're not those euphoric kids who had just won a war anymore. I've been here, trying to deal with the decisions we made then, trying to suppress what we've been through, trying to reconcile myself with this person in the mirror I don't know anymore."

She could feel the cold tears slip down the sides of her nose, salt on her lips. She pressed on. "I can't keep pretending I'm not spending every day waiting until the moment I can crawl back into bed and sleep alone. I can't keep pretending each night that you're not at the bar throwing back firewhiskey and wishing I was someone else."

At this, Ron dropped the plate with a clatter and went to her, grasping at her elbows, staring her straight in the eyes for the first time in months. "I never wished you were someone else," Ron whispered, tears in his eyes. "You did."

Maybe it was true. When she pictured her and Ron in the future, she saw a vision of herself - smiling, the gauntness gone from her face. She was setting a plate on a picnic table, children clamored for a seat. And a hand reached for hers and Ron was grinning, and Harry and Ginny were seated there too and they had forgiven her. Everyone was better and everything was safe. And then she saw the vision blur, shredded to pieces by her own hands.

And Hermione crumpled into Ron's arms and he held her close and warm like he never did anymore. She murmured his name into his chest. "I'm sorry," she said, hoping he could hear everything else she meant - that it was her fault, that she knew she had ruined it, that she hoped somebody else could be for him what she couldn't be. As she pulled away, she kissed the side of his neck and grabbed her bag off the floor. She opened the door and did not look back until she was halfway down the street. And there Ron stood, in front of their red door on the second floor. He held up a hand. Then he turned and closed the door.

The tears stung her eyes as she walked to the train station. London's chilly attempt at August left her shivering in the thin blue sweater she'd put on that morning. August 27, a day she would always remember as the day she'd left her husband.


	2. The Louvre

"Well, summer slipped us underneath her tongue

Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession."

-Lorde, "The Louvre"

Hermione had been in Paris for three days and had thus far not left her small studio apartment in the 19th arrondissement. Half-eaten takeaway food piled up near the door. She had gathered the energy to order meals from the wizard-owned restaurant below, but had thus far not summoned the same energy to dispose of the trash.

This morning felt different somehow. Her travel tiredness had cleared, and as she stretched under the white covers of her new bed, light began to stream through the window. She felt like all her muscles were buzzing, ready to be used, bones cracking loudly as they reawakened from a long slumber.

Ron hadn't known where she would go when she left, but Hermione, like always, had a plan. In two days, she would begin studying at L'Académie Sorcière de Paris. She was still only 24 years old, and she yearned to go back to a place where she had always felt comfortable: school. Even though her work experience had been rather all over the place during the past few years, her war hero status and Hogwarts accomplishments preceded her. She had been admitted in the spring with full funding and a grant to pursue research in whatever field of study she chose.

That was the tricky part - what to choose. After hours of poring over catalogs, she'd decided to take a broad base of advanced theory courses in alchemy, arithmancy, and finally, potions. She'd also signed up for an elective: wizarding photography. She relished the idea of throwing herself into another area of academia where she could excel. Maybe she'd find her old self there.

Hermione got out of bed with a familiar knot in her stomach that she couldn't place. As she dressed in a pair of black jeans, boots, and a loose white tee, she realized the feeling was excitement. It had felt so foreign to her.

Dumping her trash in the bin outside the restaurant, she caught the eye of the restauranteur, a wizard (and her landlord) who had introduced himself as Bernard Martin, or as his friends called him affectionately, "Le Bernie." He was joyful and buoyant, smiling at Hermione as she waved goodbye.

She took the metro to the 1st arrondissement, following the instructions given to her on a piece of paper by Bernie. At the corner of rue Saint-Honoré and rue des Bons-Enfants, she spotted it: a tiny hole-in-the-wall cafe called La Lumière. She entered and at the counter, ordered "the house special." The barista directed her down the stairs, to a very old-looking wooden door with an iron cross hatch window. She referenced the paper again before replicating the specific pattern on the iron. It opened before her, and Hermione nearly gasped.

She stood in front of a massive glass atrium, with green plants and white marble statues all around. People bustled across the gleaming floor, doing their shopping in the city's version of Diagon Alley, a busy mainstreet referred to simply as La Rue Centrale.

Once outside the atrium, she marveled at the greenery - Paris was known for its gardens and these did not disappoint, having been built by Louis XIV (a wizard himself) who wanted his fellow wizards and witches to have their own mini version of Versailles. Small shops, filled with all the supplies she would need for school, lined the edges of the expansive garden.

First - new robes. The French prided themselves on high-quality silk fashions, light and airy and much in the style of the Beauxbatons uniforms she remembered from back in her fourth year. Her new school had no uniform, but personal style was highly encouraged, and muggle clothing wasn't allowed during classes. The seamstress tittered around Hermione, taking her measurements and recommending robes for her to try on that were far too flouncy for her own taste. In the end, Hermione chose school robes in emerald green (to remind her of Harry and Ginny), deep blue, and simple black, as well as dress robes in scarlet. All were pure, smooth, minimalist silk, tied together with lace-up ribbons instead of the standard buttons. She also purchased several pairs of sturdy black boots, and a pair of heels for special occasions.

After hitting the shops for supplies like dragonhide gloves and potions kit ingredients, she made her way to the tall book shop at the end of the block. It was a small, circular shop with ceilings at least 50 feet tall and three open levels reachable by a central spiral staircase. It smelled like old parchment and fresh coffee and everything good in Hermione's world. She moved around the half-empty store in a daze, absentmindedly stroking the spines of a dozen unopened volumes. She spent the next hour languorously skimming any book that caught her interest, picking up several wizarding and muggle novels alike. Finally, she'd decided she better get on with finding her school books.

The pile she presented to the cashier was laughably large. The shop owner nodded to her in respect before casting weightless reduction charms so the books would fit neatly inside her bag. If she hadn't been so focused on the shopkeeper and her impressive haul, perhaps she would have recognized the sweep of dark hair that passed soundlessly, unnoticeably behind her and out the door.

The sun was beginning to go down as Hermione exited La Rue Centrale and re-entered muggle Paris. High off her purchases, she wasn't quite ready to return to her small, empty room. With the Louvre standing impressively before her, she decided to duck in to look at her favorite sculpture before the museum closed in an hour.

The lines were short thanks to the late hour, and the section of the museum itself was surprisingly empty, despite it holding one of the more famous sculptures in the Louvre, and the one Hermione currently sought: the Venus de Milo.

She arrived at the foot of the ancient Greek statue, still as much in awe of its beauty as she had been the first time she'd seen it at 13 with her parents. She had been entering the beginnings of adolescence then, and was experiencing all the insecurity and angst typical of the age. Looking at the statue now, Hermione didn't feel much improved.

The white marble Venus stood as ever, a pinnacle of feminine beauty that had inspired generations of artists. She is strong and beautiful because of that strength. Her clothes are draped as if an afterthought. She existed outside of the realm of Hermione's reality, an aspirational goddess of love and beauty, the very things Hermione struggled most to hold onto.

"She is quite lovely, Miss Granger," a dour baritone spoke from behind her. She recognized that voice, one that had humiliated and educated her for years. She turned to find ex-Hogwarts professor Severus Snape in front of her.

Her mind struggled to align this new image with the old. He looked different. Healthy, maybe. There was no other word for it - he looked good, wearing a white button-down shirt with rolled up sleeves and fitted black pants with distinctly French tailoring. No billowing black robes in sight, and his hair was shorter and wavy as if freed from a lifetime of greasy product. (Author's note: I'm picturing Snape in this story as an older version of my favorite French actor, Louis Garrel)

The 44-year-old man had survived Nagini's bite, but barely. He had recovered in St. Mungo's along with the others injured in the war, received awards for his service to the school and the wizarding community alongside the Golden Trio, met privately with Harry once at the Burrow, and then, silently and quickly, was gone from England and their lives.

Hermione knew that most of the English wizarding community had been relieved to see the back of him. They were thankful for his service, sure, but few understood the lengths he had gone to during the war, and many suspected something was not quite right with the potions master's double-agent story. Some even still blamed him for Lily and James Potter's death.

All that to say, she could see why he had chosen to disappear. Over the years, he would pass idly through her thoughts. She was envious of his fluidity, how he could simply slide out of one life and into another. She envied his freedom. And now, here he was. And she herself was freer than ever.

"I assure you I am surprised to see you here as well," Snape said, not approaching any closer. Hermione managed a smile. "My apologies, sir. I didn't mean to appear so shocked. It is, er, nice to see you."

Snape smirked. "There is no need to call me sir, Miss Granger. We are not at Hogwarts and I am no longer your teacher." Hermione could feel her cheeks redden. Why couldn't she bring herself to correct his use of her maiden name? "Well then, call me Hermione, " she said. A few beats of awkward silence lingered. Hermione's stomach growled, and then the words were out of her mouth before she could take them back.

"Would you like to get dinner with me? Maybe catch up over tea?"

Snape appeared to mull it over. And then he looked at her with a half eyebrow raised and nodded, and held out his arm for her to grasp.


	3. Because the Night

"Come on now try and understand

the way I feel when I'm in your hands.

Take my hand come undercover,

they can't hurt you now."

\- Patti Smith, "Because the Night"

Without thinking, Hermione had apparated them back to the restaurant below her flat. Bernie spotted her at the door, and his eyes lit up when he saw she had company. He beckoned them into the small restaurant, which served authentic French cuisine.

He seated Hermione and Snape by the window, at a rather romantically set up table with a lit candle and delicate lace napkins. "What drew you to this place?" Snape asked, sneering slightly at the lace. Hermione laughed nervously, "Uh, well, it's the only place I know. I'm staying just upstairs."

Bernie brought them two glasses of blood red cabernet sauvignon. "Merci," Hermione muttered, taking a quick gulp. Snape, however, lifted the wine to his nose, inhaled deeply and took a small lapping taste. Upon finding it to his liking, he drank more deeply, a satisfied expression on his face. Hermione assumed that was the closest to a compliment this place was going to get from the potions master.

"Do you live here?" she asked after taking another sip. He raised an eyebrow. "I do not live here in this very restaurant, if that's what you are asking." Hermione has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes, "You know very well it's not. Also, I do not wish to be spoken to like a child." There was that old Gryffindor spark. She'd thought it wouldn't return.

Snape tipped his glass to her slightly, acknowledging his error. "Old habits, I suppose. Though I don't see the harm in encouraging…precision." The word slipped off his tongue and Hermione suddenly felt like she had drunk two glasses of wine rather than two sips. She grabbed her water cup.

"But yes, I do live in Paris now, not too far from here actually," Snape said. "And what brings you to the city of lights?"

"I'm on holiday," she lied, not really examining the reason for the lie in the first place. Hermione's face did not betray her — she'd gotten better over the years at not displaying her emotions for all to see. "The last time I was here was with my parents, and I remembered how beautiful the city was."

Snape nodded, "That it is." He did not offer any more detail. And then the waiter was back to take their order.

Hermione glanced at the menu. "Je voudrais la blanquette de veau," she said in fluent French, ordering the creamy veal stew. "Et pour vous?" the waiter turned to Snape. "Tartare de filet de boeuf, s'il vous plait." The waiter bowed and left the table.

Hermione giggled at his choice. Snape's eyebrows implored her to explain.

"The first time I ordered steak tartare was when I was with my parents here. I was 12 and desperately wanted to seem French," Hermione laughed at the memory. "The waiter asked if I knew what the dish was. I lied and said yes, not wanting to appear dumb. When he brought out the raw meat, my face said it all. And my parents made me eat every last bite." She shuddered.

Snape prevented himself a small upturn of his lips. "Of course know-it-all Granger would bring that situation upon herself." Hermione blushed on instinct, but relaxed when she saw his expression. He was teasing her.

They fell silent, attending to their wine and bread.

Finally, Hermione could not keep herself from asking the question that had been on her mind since she was 18. "Sir, if you don't mind me asking, where have you been since the war ended? You vanished without a trace."

Snape cleared his throat. "I needed to leave. I needed to begin again somewhere else."

Hermione understood, but still she found herself questioning. "But you were a hero. The wizarding community would have given you anything. Why didn't you stay to see the fruits of all your labor?"

He looked at her shrewdly. "Surely you know that was not the case. They were…repulsed by me. And ashamed of their repulsion. It was easier for everyone if I disappeared from public life."

He spoke like he had been alone for many years, the words spilling out but stunted. Like he had been practicing what he would say and was now recalling it for the first time. The room suddenly was too hot and too quiet.

Snape shrugged. "After all, why have me when they could have their shining Golden Trio as war heroes?" He gave her a small smile. Hermione laughed in return, but then turned solemn. "We're not so shining anymore it seems."

Snape tilted his head, unsure of her meaning. She decided it was time to change the topic. Luckily, their food then arrived. After they enjoyed their first few bites, she said, "Well, tell me about your travels since then."

He began telling her about his trips to South Africa, Egypt, India, Australia. As she listened to his stories, she felt a little outside her body. She still couldn't really believe she was here, having dinner with a man she so respected and, well, feared as if everything were normal and they merely shared an amicable past friendship.

He had covered the world over, learning local cultures and figuring out his next move. "Which is?" Hermione asked.

Snape took another sip of wine, draining his glass. "I'm doing some consulting for various Parisian potions researchers. It's a good location for travel, and it turns out they're very much in need of my expertise."

Hermione smirked. Now he sounded more like the Severus Snape she had known. He refilled their glasses, and as he did Hermione noticed a faint flush on his neck. So he wasn't immune to the wine's effects either.

They finished their meal, each tackling another glass apiece. Bernie brought them a dessert on the house — a slice of tart French apple pie with two forks. As he left, he winked at Hermione. Great, she thought, another person who wants to meddle in my love life, thinking of Mrs. Weasley. And Ginny, for that matter.

The two, former potions master and former student, double-agent and Hogwarts golden girl, shared the dessert, enjoying a small quiet moment of pretending they were other people.

—

But who said they really had to stop pretending? Hermione thought as Snape paid for the meal ("Let me do you the honor of treating you, Hermione.") and they walked out into the cool summer night.

They stood in front of the restaurant, both feeling the warming effects of a few glasses of wine. Hermione broke the silence. "Thank you again for dinner. It was nice seeing you." She tried to not to think about how close they were standing. She could smell his sandalwood cologne. She was reminded of the occasional dark fantasies she'd harbored while at school involving a certain potions master. Those imaginings had assisted her hand many a night in her four-poster bed.

And now, he was here. And she wanted him. Snape shifted, looking at her curiously. "Of course. I daresay it was nice to see you as well. Never thought I'd be saying that to a former student, especially a bushy-haired know it all." He smiled and as he said it reached a hand up to slip a rogue curl behind her ear. Hermione's breath caught in her throat. His hand lingered, stroking lightly down her jaw line to her neck. She was surely going to faint, had not felt this kind of desire in years.

Snape searched her eyes, looking for permission. And she gave it by pressing her lips to his. They met over and over, Snape sliding a hand to tangle in her hair, the other at her waist, pulling her close into him. Her hands moved to his shoulders, caressing his neck, her lips drinking from his as if she'd never be sated again. They pulled away for a moment; she remembered they were outside.

She kissed him again and tugged him through the door and upstairs, fumbling with her keys as his arms encircled her waist and rubbed at her hips and he kissed her neck. The door clicked open and suddenly he was leading them inside. He shut the door and immediately pressed her against it, pulling the bag off her shoulder and tossing it to the ground.

She pulled away in anguish, "Hey, all my books were in there, organized alphabetically!" Snape quieted her with a searing kiss, his tongue slipping between her lips. He then whispered in her ear, "Well I suppose you'll just have to re-alphabetize them then." She shivered at the desire in his voice.

Snape pulled off her t-shirt as she unclasped her bra. He kissed down from her neck to her breasts, nipping lightly at her nipples until she groaned. He continued his descent to her stomach, licking down to her belly button and pulling off her jeans. She stood in front of him finally, clad in only her panties. He was on his knees in front of her, black eyes looking into hers.

"May I taste you, Hermione Granger?" Snape asked as his fingers traced her underwear, sliding down to feel her pussy through the cotton. She nearly came right there, could only nod.

And then he'd slipped those off too and she was bare above him, his tongue buried in her most sensitive and intimate parts. He licked expertly at her clit — quick, firm strokes that worked her into a frenzy. Her hand found his hair, tugging and pushing him closer and closer.

"More, more, please sir," she'd moaned out, her words slipping into the familiar respectful niceties. He'd obliged her, grabbing her thighs as he completely undid her. And when she finally came, her legs wobbled beneath her. Snape scooped her up and laid her gently on the bed while she recovered.

And then she was unbuttoning his shirt and tugging at his belt. "You're wearing entirely too many clothes, professor," Hermione said. She reached down to help him remove his pants, sliding a hand over his manhood. He groaned and she nearly grinned, delighting in a new sense of power. Once he was naked, he licked at her nipples as she writhed beneath his body and grasped at his backside. "Fuck me, please," she begged, not sure how she became so horny again so quickly.

Snape locked eyes with her as he finally, deliciously, slowly entered her. He fucked her with confidence and strength, seducing her through each thrust, gripping her hips and making her head fall back and her breasts heave. Soon, they were both unraveling together, coming hard and long, flush against each other until they were too hot and starved of breath and had to break apart.

As he lay beside her, Hermione's mind raced. Snape (should she call him Severus now?) propped himself up one arm and closed her eyes gently with his fingers. "I can practically hear your thoughts from that buzzing little head of yours, Granger. Don't think too much." And then he kissed her again, slow and deep. He pulled away and settled in to sleep. Hermione didn't notice his own hesitant movement — before he moved his body to spoon hers, wrapping an arm around her waist and burying his face in her neck.

—

When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.


	4. In My Feelings

"I'm feeling all my fucking feelings."

—Lana Del Rey, "In My Feelings"

It had been two days since she'd slept with Severus Snape. Just saying those words out loud (okay, in her head) made Hermione's heart race, her face flush. She wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or lust. Maybe some disturbing mingling of both.

And then when she had awoken, nothing. His side of the bed was smooth and untouched. He hadn't left a note. Instead he had snuck away, living up the slipperiness of his house. She wasn't sure how to feel. Their dinner had been….pleasant, if a tad awkward. he had eventually started to talk to her as an equal, someone he could bear to be around. They'd a come long way from when he'd insulted her teeth in third year.

She'd pushed away the memory for a long while. He couldn't know how much he'd crushed her then — the girl who had wanted so desperately for approval from her teachers, for proof she belonged in this world.

Hermione shook the image from her head as she dressed in her brand new school robes. Today was the first day of whatever was going to happen next. Girls like Hermione Granger were made for the first day of school.

She finished lacing up the front of her emerald green robes and smoothed them over her waist as she gazed at herself in the mirror. "You belong here, Hermione Granger," she murmured to her reflection.

—

The day started off normal enough. Hermione attended a welcome breakfast in one of the schools's large open meeting rooms. There were about 30 students in her year, all studying different subjects. Hermione seemed to be one of the few who had such a broad curriculum planned for herself, but then again, she'd always been an over-achiever.

Many of her fellow classmates, who were from all over the world, seemed to recognize her. But rather than approach, they eyed her as if they weren't sure she was actually who she said she was. And then all of a sudden a boy was right next to her, extending his hand with an eager grin. "Hermione Granger!" he nearly squealed, with an American accent. She shook his hand hesitantly, but she couldn't help but smile back at him.

"Wow, it's so exciting to meet you in person! I've of course read your papers on magical law and creature endangerment, ooh and that really good one about the need for more expansive aurora training. My school actually changed its curriculum to require more NEWTS before we could sit the auror exam! Can you believe it?" She attempted to smile modestly, but she was a sucker for flattery.

"I don't think I've ever met someone so excited about reading academic papers," she said. "Except, well, me."

He laughed loudly, but sincerely. He couldn't be more than 18 years old, especially with that buoyant grin. As if he read her mind, he said, "I just graduated from school in May. Oh! My name's Neal by the way. Got a little carried away."

She laughed. "A little?" He didn't blush, but shrugged a little helplessly. "Hey, what can I say? My parents sayI come on too strong, but I don't really see what they mean." He didn't wait for Hermione's response, instead pulling her towards a small of group of people. "Have you met Maggie? What about Sloan? Oh, and that's Will." Soon he was introducing her to everyone — how could he have met everyone so quickly?

Sloan and Maggie smiled at her, shaking her hand. Sloan was from California, while Maggie was from Berlin. And Will was from London. He shook her hand shyly, "I actually graduated from Hogwarts this past year." They all appeared so young, though Maggie said she was 22 and Sloan was 23. Hermione didn't know if she was imagining it, but they all looked more innocent than she. Gods, she felt like an old woman.

As they wrapped up breakfast, they compared their next moves. Turns out they all had a course called "Advanced Theories in Potions" coming up next. They walked together through the courtyard and into the airy, light-filled classroom, taking seats and chattering like they hadn't all just met. Hermione felt herself relaxing, pleased to be around people who cared so much about learning.

"I hear the new potions master is one of the most renowned researchers in the world," Sloan said with wide, excited eyes. Neal smirked and bent toward them like he was sharing a secret. "Well, I hear he's pretty sexy." Neal winked at Hermione and waggled his eyebrows aggressively. Everyone laughed. Hermione actually hadn't heard a thing about the potions master. The slot had been left blank on her time table, and she'd been so excited about her other professors (some of the most well-respected magical faculty in the world) that she'd forgotten to inquire further.

She bent down to grab her book and a quill when the door opened and her new professor strode in, his shoes making light clacking noises across the floor. She glanced up quickly and felt her heart stop in her throat.

He had his back to her, writing his name in chalk on the board. But she didn't need to follow his careful handwriting to know who was standing in front of her. Just a few night before she'd had her hands in that hair, pushing his tongue further into her most intimate parts. She was shaking, surely, would everyone be able to see her reaction? She started to sweat. What would happen when he turned around and saw her sitting there? Gods, she had fucked up.

He finished writing and turned to face the small class. His eyes found hers immediately, widened almost imperceptibly. She thought she was going to burn up right there at her desk. What would he do now?

And then he spoke in that familiar, snarky voice. "My name is Professor Snape, you will address me as such. I will be teaching you this term as we go further along in your potions education than you have ever gone before. I sure hope you are ready for it. Now, please open your books to page 394. Today I am going to teach you about antidotes to poisons you should hope you never ever come in contact with."

And then Snape proceeded to ignore her for the entire rest of the lesson.


	5. Boys

"Don't be mad, don't be mad, not like I had a choice.

I was busy thinking 'bout boys."

— "Boys," Charli XCX

"By the next class I want you all to have finished Hemings' book and written an essay on the benefits and drawbacks to her theory of antidote crafting. Until then," Snape finished with a finality that the class recognized as a dismissal. He swiftly left the room. Hermione's new friends immediately stood up, going on excitedly about how informative the lesson had been.

They weren't wrong, but for one of the only times in her whole life, Hermione hadn't given 100% of herself in a class. Of course, she'd had a good reason for her distraction. "Well, you just fucked your professor, Hermione," she berated herself. "Literally the person who could destroy your future in this field." If she hadn't lied about being on holiday, maybe this wouldn't have happened. But another voice inside her was more gentle. You couldn't have known, Hermione. It's just a horrible coincidence.

For once, her obsessive tendency to research had failed her. She felt dazed, wanting to kick herself for this predicament. It shouldn't even surprise her anymore that her temporary pleasures would lead to longterm pain.

Neal, Maggie, Sloan, and Will clomped out of class together. Hermione floated a few feet behind, thinking about how she could have let this situation happen. And then, a firm hand on her upper arm urged her forward. Professor Snape walked hurriedly beside her, his face set in a grim line. Hermione opened her mouth, but Snape cut her off with a hiss. "Not yet." Snape led her out of the building and into another, up to the fifth floor where the faculty offices were.

Snape's office was brighter than she expected. The large room's outward-facing wall was one huge window, and the other walls were covered in built-in bookshelves. Dark, soft leather armchairs and a couch made up a small sitting area, and Snape's magnificent cherry wood desk was stacked with old-looking books. Hermione relaxed a little despite herself, even as Snape stood with his back to her, staring at the shelves and massaging his temples.

She tensed up again as soon as he turned around. She'd sent that look before on his face, but never had she so directly caused it. Fury.

"You lied to me, Miss Granger," he practically snarled. "What happened to being on holiday, hmm?" He was right, but she grew defiant.

"Like you told the truth! What about being a 'consultant' to a potions researcher, hmm?" Hermione stabbed back.

"That is not a lie. I merely didn't explain the entire breadth of my occupation. Which is my right to withhold."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Sure, okay. So you're allowed to withhold stuff but I'm not. What happened to all that bullshit you said the other night about starting over? Did you ever think maybe I wanted that too?"

Snape scoffed, "Why would Gryffindor's golden girl want a fresh start? Whatever could you find here that you couldn't have in London, surrounded by fame and endless Weasleys?"

Rage filled her. "You know nothing about my life, Snape! Don't act as if otherwise!" Snape strode towards her, grabbing her arms and shaking her slightly, his face transformed into something more than anger, something like grief. "Don't you get it, you insolent child? You've ruined everything!" Hermione's eyes blazed. "I am not a child, Severus." They were still so close together. Nose to nose. It was time now to back away, to cool off. Instead, as his name rolled off her lips, Hermione pounced, nearly knocking him backwards onto his desk. Snape responded in kind, biting at her lips. They bruised each other's mouths as tongues fought. Her hands scratched at his chest, pulling him closer and yet making him pay, making herself pay.

He entrenched his fingers in her hair as he molded them together, releasing days worth of pent-up desire, matches lit by the situation they had found themselves in without meaning to. Hermione's body burned, she could feel how wet she was already, she could feel his hardness against her thighs. It was all too much; she couldn't breathe.

And then she felt her tears before she realized what they were. Snape felt them too, and he pulled away. They sagged to the floor, each feeling exhausted from the flare-up of passion, unfulfilled. Hermione clutched onto his shirt as she cried, feeling like an idiot and trying to stop crying to no avail. Nothing kills sex faster than tears, and yet she was grateful for them. Something in her was trying to help her put a stop to this.

And Snape couldn't know, but the tears on his shirt were for Ron, for the life they'd built, for what she'd thrown away, for what she'd lost as a child in war. And the tears were also for Snape. She knew what he'd lost. She knew about Lily. She cried for the both of them, two people trying to find something they maybe would never get back.

Eventually she cried herself into a doze. A haggard looking Snape picked her up and laid her down on the couch and covered her with a soft wool blanket. Then, he sank down into the armchair, spent.

When Hermione awoke, she was alone. She carefully folded up the blanket and held it across her lap. What now? Her eyes wandered the room. Just as she had decided to leave, the door opened and Snape was there, holding two coffees and a grocery bag.

He laid out his offering on the table, a block of bleu cheese, a wrapped package of prosciutto, warm bread and a small tin of butter. "I decided we could use fortifications to have this discussion," Snape said.

Hermione nodded as she buttered her bread, "The one where we decide we can't have sex again?" Snape smirked, "Never one for subtlety, are you Granger?"

He didn't speak for a minute while they chewed. "I guess I'll have to call you sir again," Hermione said with a small giggle. Things felt lighter now, like they weren't in a ridiculous and inappropriate situation. Snape nodded, looking slightly less uncomfortable. She picked up on his mood. "Don't worry, I'm not going to sob all over you again. That wasn't really about you, it was—I've been going through, I mean…" She trailed off. "It's just, for this to happen on top of everything, I was overwhelmed."

"I understood, Miss Granger. And you're correct that we cannot," he gestured between them, "do this again. I have no desire to lose my job or exert any power over your future career. It's best for the both of us to remain professional while I am your teacher."

She nodded in agreement, not missing the last part of his words, the "while I'm your teacher" addendum. "Yes, agreed." She couldn't explain the twinges of disappointment, after all, she barely knew Snape on a personal level (aside from all the things he could do with his body, and with hers). He didn't know her either. They were practically strangers, even with their shared history. It should be easy to return to the teacher/student dynamic they already knew so well.

They finished the meal in silence. Hermione got up to leave, and Snape rose and walked her to the door. She almost left without saying anything, but just could not help herself. She turned back to him and stuck out her hand. "Professor, I would quite like to be friends." He stared at her. Didn't she know he didn't really *do* friends?

His eyes met her bright ones, her open face, still hoping for the best in people after all these years. He shook her hand. "Whatever you say, Miss Granger."


	6. Uh Huh

“We're ahead now, should we slow down?”  
— Julia Michaels, “Uh Huh”

“And in this example, which two ingredients would be the most effective at correcting the ailment?” Professor Snape asked the class. Hermione’s hand flung itself into the air, but not for the first time since classes started a few weeks prior, she noticed a flurry of movement around her. At least three fourths of the class also had their hands raised. The remaining students were taking furious notes on Snape’s lesson. 

Snape himself looked slightly bemused, clearly also not used to students with such...drive. He smirked a little in Hermione’s direction, or maybe she was imagining it. “Mr. Sampat?” Neal grinned victoriously. “Wormwood and essence of midnight daffodil, sir.” 

“Correct, 10 points to—” he cleared his throat awkwardly to make up for the slip. The academy didn’t have houses like Hogwarts. “I mean, well done.” Neal flushed at the praise as Hermione looked on, a tad disgruntled. Snape moved across the room and waved his hand, clearing their desks of everything but their cauldrons. “Now, it’s your turn to try this antidote. You’ll have precisely an hour. There will be no need to talk.”

The class quickly got to work brewing for Professor Snape, while the potions master sat down at his desk and began marking papers. Hermione couldn’t stop herself from gazing at him a moment too long. He glanced up briefly and caught, she hastily looked away and attended to her ingredients. 

The whole first three weeks of classes had felt like one baffling dream to Hermione. For once, she was no longer the first hand in the air or the sole participant in class discussion. Her classmates were lively and engaged, asking questions and comparing notes. The atmosphere was competitive, yes, but it was also collaborative, and Hermione was frequently sought out for her opinions — she’d found herself in a number of arguments already, especially with Neal, who always liked to push her buttons. 

And the work, of course, was more challenging than ever, and much more so than Hogwarts. She had no need to come up with more challenging versions of her assignments like she had in school before. Instead, she spent countless hours with her classmates in the library, working day and night on alchemy, arithmancy, and potions, while thriving, like she always did, under the pressure. 

But another baffling part was Snape himself. And it wasn’t even the tremendous awkwardness that still remained between them. It was that this Snape seemed almost…kind. Well, that was maybe too much credit. At the very least, he was not trying to make his students miserable. 

Instead, he seemed surprised and gratified by their attention to his subject, and occasionally was even inspired to go off on tangents, romanticizing the art of potions to a rapt audience. He was truly in rare form. And each time he did that, Hermione would think again about how little she knew about Snape and what he had been up to during the past six years. 

At the end of the lesson, when the potions had been bottled and submit to Snape for grading, he held up a hand to make an announcement. “I’ve been told that next semester I can take a research assistant from this class. It will be a lot of extra work that I think will be worthwhile, as you will be helping me brew potions for… real-world customers.” Eager whispers swept across the room. 

“To decide who will take the position, I’m going to have a sort of contest on December 15th, a live brew-off that will decide the winner of the assistantship. I will also take into account your work over the course of the next few months in this class. May the best witch or wizard win.”

The class hummed in excitement as they packed up their things. It was Sloan who spoke first, nudging Hermione slightly with a teasing grin, “10 bucks Hermione and Neal get in fisticuffs over this competition.” Neal laughed, shadowboxing in Hermione’s general direction: “I’ll take that bet, even though you know, Sloan, that American dollars are worth less compared to the Euro.” Hermione chimed in, “And both are weak compared to le petit coins.” The phrase had become a nickname for French wizarding money… the group, not including Hermione, was still struggling with their French, and had taken to jokingly adding “le petit” onto English words and saying them in an exaggerated French accent to compensate. “Now, shall we all head to le petit cafeteria for le petit cafe?” Neal asked. Hermione ushered them forward, saying she’d catch up with them later. 

Instead of joining them, she headed out of the building, stopping by the bathroom to magick her clothing to muggle attire, a pair of loose jeans, canvas sneakers, and a baggy sweater. Back in muggle Paris, Hermione took the train to her favorite outdoor cafe, greeting the waiter and settling into her chair with a notebook and pen, and a glass of her favorite cabernet sauvignon. 

She made a list titled “Advanced Potions Assistantship” and starting jotting down the details Snape had given them, along with potions she’s like to have mastered by Dec. 15. Once she had filled a page in her black book, she absentmindedly began making a list of another kind, a timeline of sorts. She scribbled little notes. “Kissed Ron for the first time — May 1, 1998.” “Won the war — May 2, 1998.” 

It was a game she’d been playing with herself in her head for months, trying to piece together the exact moment everything changed. “Ron, Ginny, Harry, and I move into Hogwarts — July 15.” She could remember that day so clearly. After the battle, four friends had been busy planning funerals, grieving for the dead, and crafting a plan to restore Hogwarts and fix the heavy damage inflicted on the school. It was important to Harry, and to all of them, that Hogwarts reopen by September 1 of that year and begin accepting new students. 

So they all moved in, converting a few unused classrooms into apartment quarters with a roomy common area. Somehow, it was assumed that Ron and Hermione would share one room, with Harry and Ginny sharing another — they hadn’t wanted to waste any time now that Voldemort was gone, and Harry had all but proposed marriage. Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, were still very new, but Hermione shrugged off her feelings that she shouldn’t rush things, preferring to ride the high of their beginning relationship. 

They spent that year a weird mix of student and adult, repairing structural damage to the school while completing their NEWTS — well, Hermione and Ginny completed them, at least. All students who had fought in the war were offered complimentary NEWTS, which Ron and Harry had accepted. They had both chosen to pursue their auror careers, and had begun training, with classes in Hogsmeade and in London. Hermione, however, wanted a thorough education, while Ginny wanted one last year of quidditch eligibility before trying to play professionally.

It was one of the most fun years Hermione had ever had, at least on the surface: they enjoyed the pleasures and familiarity of Hogwarts, while getting to still pretend to be children for another day. But it also served as a way to tamp down the grief and trauma they all carried with them. Hermione had been unable to reverse the memory charms on her parents, and so they lived still in Australia, never knowing they’d had a daughter. Ron and Ginny tried not to think about Fred, whose absence was felt every day in their family. And Harry, Hermione knew, thought often of the brief moments when he was reunited with Sirius, Remus, James, and Lily, thought often of his brush with death.

But still, they persevered, improving the school and helping regrow damaged parts of the Forbidden Forest. By the end of the year, Hermione and Ginny had a full slate of NEWTs, Ginny had 15 offers to play pro quidditch, and Ron and Harry were both certified aurors. They now felt ready to move on, to tackle the next adventures in their lives. But Ron had insisted on moving home: “Ron and I move into the Burrow — July 1, 1999.”

Hermione was interrupted from her thoughts when Severus Snape slid into the seat across from her. “So this is where you’ve been going after my classes,” he said matter of factly, as if it was not at all strange that he had tracked her movements. Hermione raised an eyebrow, “Have you been following me?” Snape scoffed, “Contrary to your popular belief Granger, no. Actually, we both happen to share a liking for this spot. I’ve been coming here for years.” 

It was plain on Hermione’s face that she didn’t believe him. The waiter came over to take Snape’s order, but upon seeing him, clasped his hands together in delight. “Monsieur Snape, so wonderful to see you. The usual, I presume?” Snape nodded, “That’ll be fine, Pierre, merci.” “De rien, professeur! And I shall tell the owner you’ve arrived, Matthieu has been wanting to speak to you about something specific.” Snape’s brown furrowed at that, but he said no more. 

Hermione, meanwhile, had flushed in light embarrassment. Why had she thought it a good idea to accuse him of following her? And why was she now slightly disappointed that hadn’t been the case? Snape took the old-fashioned cocktail from Pierre and took a small sip. “I’ll forgive your presumption, Miss Granger.” She steadied her gaze on him. “I thought we’d agreed on Hermione.” Snape, she was pleased to see, looked taken aback. “That was….in different circumstances. I think we ought to stick to appropriate gestures, don’t you think?” As he spoke, she forced herself not to look at fingers wrapped around the sweating glass, how close his touch was if only she was to reach out… “Yes sir,” she agreed.

“Actually, I did have a question about today’s lesson,” Hermione began, grasping around for a subject change. Snape rolled his eyes, “Of course you did.” She shrugged off his derision. “You had us stir counterclockwise on the draught of euphoria, against the book’s instruction. And it worked I know, but how did you come to that conclusion, when two stirs could have easily ruined it?” Snape took another sip from his glass. “Years of research, Miss Granger. But in that particular instance, I knew that in this particular potion, the viscosity was crucial to its success, and if there were an easier way to approach that level of thickness, then, well, I appreciate efficiency.”

“But how did you know, sir, when it was time to push the boundary?” It had been an honest question, but all too quickly Hermione realized the double meaning of her words. Her body felt hot all over. Snape appeared unmoved. He took a long guzzle of the drink, clinking the ice against his teeth. “Sometimes you just know when the time is right, Hermione.” 

He threw down several euros for both their drinks, stood up, and left her sitting with her open notebook, the ink still drying on “Ron and I move into the Burrow — July 1, 1999.”


	7. Whatever You Like

“We can pop bottles all night,  
Baby, you could have whatever you like.”  
—”Whatever You Like” by T.I./the Anya Marina cover from Gossip Girl

Snape had left the table 10 minutes ago, and still Hermione sat, dumbstruck, replaying the conversation in her mind. She was shaken out of her reverie when a tall, handsome man in a navy suit approached her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Je m’appelle Matthieu,” he reached for her hand and kissed it. Hermione blushed automatically. She was doing a lot of that these days. “Pardon, but I was looking for Professor Severus Snape — has he gone?”

“Bonjour, je m’appelle Hermione. Oui, Monsieur. I’m sorry.” She added, “He left about 10 minutes ago.” Matthieu did not look surprised, but instead grinned ruefully. “Hmm. That man, so difficult to reach! I had a few questions about a brew he has been working on for me.” Hermione lit up, “Oh! So you’re who he has been consulting for.” Matthieu raised an eyebrow, “He has mentioned our work?” The tone of his voice had slipped from suave to suspicious, which did not escape Hermione. “Only briefly, sir,” she said quickly. “He was my Professor at Hogwarts and we caught up recently.” 

This seemed to relax the man, and he gestured to the vacated seat. “May I join you for a drink?” Hermione hesitated — it was now after 4, and she had said she’d meet up with Neal. But Matthieu grinned, and she was struck again by just how attractive the French all seemed to be. He looked to be around the same age as Snape, but clearly was unburdened by any past hardship. “Please, any friend of Severus’s is a friend of mine — and I’ll even bring out our best champagne.” She couldn’t say no to that, and nodded her assent.

Matthieu snapped his fingers and two flutes of liquid gold appeared in front of them. He toasted her, and they drank slowly. It was unlike any champagne Hermione had ever tasted, it practically melted in her mouth. “It’s my own creation, I’ll confess,” Matthieu said when he saw her blissful expression. Hermione smirked, “You must be confident in it to call it your best champagne.” Matthieu tipped his drink to her, “But do you not agree, now that you’ve tried it?” She raised her glass in his direction. “So...you own the restaurant, you make the fare, you’re a researcher. You’re a regular jack of all trades,” Hermione said. 

He winked at her, “I do what I can, mademoiselle. And you? Your face...it looks familiar to me somehow.” Hermione took a beat to form her words. How did one explain oneself without using the words “war hero”? But he beat her to it. “Ah! You’re the friend of Harry Potter, are you not? Western Europe owes you a great debt.” She felt herself redden further. “Yes, I fought alongside Harry in the second wizarding war.” “And what do you do now, hero of war?” He jokingly added the moniker. She took another sip, “I’m studying at l’academie, getting my advanced degree in potions, alchemy, arithmancy.” He raised the glass to toast her again, and said quite gravely, “How accomplished you are.” 

For some reason she laughed aloud at this, and he laughed along with her, and something shifted between them. The conversation flowed more easily, indeed, quite like the champagne kept refilling itself. When Hermione next checked the time, it was half past 8. They had moved inside to drink at the bar, and were engaged in a hearty debate about Beauxbatons vs. Hogwarts. “Never was there finer food than at Beaux,” Matthieu reminisced dreamily. “The croissants, the toasted crêpes, the creamy bouillabaisse...” Hermione cut him off, “I’ll concede that French food is superior, but you haven’t known comfort food until you’ve had Hogwarts shepherds pie. I mean that. I even learned the recipe so I could make it at home, for R— for myself.” She broke off. Matthieu turned his knees toward her, and laid an arm across the back of her chair, where it brushed against her back. Hermione shivered pleasantly, looking into his pale blue eyes. Blue eyes and blonde hair had always been her weakness....and charm, that smile... “Perhaps you’ll make me some soon,” Matthieu said, staring into her eyes, like he was willing her to lean in just an inch. She didn’t know if it was the heady buzz of alcohol or her own as of late unbridled lust, but she found herself moving closer. And then, the cold, crisp voice that so tormented her in her youth rang out — “Ah, Matthieu. I see you’ve met Miss Granger.”

Severus Snape stood there, in front of the bar. He looked every bit the man she thought she’d left at Hogwarts. He wore all black, with a long dark coat that swirled around him almost like a robe. And he spoke, too, in the voice she grew up with, cruel and blank. “Miss Granger, I think it is time you went home.” Anger flared up in Hermione, “Sev—Professor, you’ve no right to tell me when I can go home.” She heard the petulant tone in her voice and tried to soften it, silently cursing the man who made her revert to her worst tendencies. “I was just having a lovely chat with your colleague.” At this, Matthieu moved his hand off the back of her chair, turning all the way around and moving his hand forwardly to Hermione’s knee. 

Snape caught the movement and nearly snarled. “Oh, come on Sev, join us for a drink. Your Hermione is quite charmant, surely you’d like to sit?” Snape seemed to grow even angrier at the invitation, even as he appeared more still on the surface. Hermione couldn’t place the source of his rage through her drunken haze. She turned to grab her drink and promptly knocked it over, so that it splashed onto her sweater and Snape’s coat. “Oops,” Hermione giggled, trying to regain her bearings. As she moved, she slipped and over corrected, and would surely have sprawled onto the ground if Snape had not caught her around the waist, lifting her to her wobbly feet. “Matthieu, I’ll speak with you later,” he glared at the restaurateur. Matthieu looked unperturbed, certainly more so than the murderous-looking Snape. “Sure Sev, come find me somewhere more...private. But do it soon s'il vous plaît.” No overt threat had been made, but even Hermione could feel the tension. 

Snape, still holding her by the waist, pulled her roughly out of the restaurant and down the block. Hermione was beginning to feel dizzy, as though all the champagne were hitting her at once. “I’m going to apparate us now, since you’re in no condition to do so,” he said stiffly, condescendingly. She felt like she was being squeezed through a small tube, and then she was back in front of her apartment, with him, again.

She breathed heavily, and felt suddenly more sober. And the more sober she felt, the more pissed off she realized she was. “I can take care of myself, Professor. You’re not in control of me. I’m not a child!” At this Snape snapped, “Then why, pray tell, were you acting like one? Getting drunk in public with a strange man you don’t even know! Throwing yourself at him!”

Her fury rose: “Oh come on, he said he was your friend! You two clearly knew each other! And I was not throwing myself at him — if I was you’d know it!” He nearly barked back, “You’re just the same reckless little know it all you were in school! You still know nothing!” Hermione took a step away from him, drawing herself up to her full height. “You know nothing about me,” she said coldly. 

And Snape then stepped closely to her, softening his glare as he held her forearms, as if imploring her to understand. “That man...we are business partners. He is not the kind of person you want as your ‘friend.’” 

Then she understood. He had been worried, maybe even slightly jealous, and his concern, though likely misplaced, felt nice? Or entrapping, like Ron’s? She felt very confused. She could admit that much to herself. He was still holding onto her, looking from one of her brown eyes to the other. The champagne working its way through her system flooded her with courage, and forgotten heat. Without warning for either of them, she tugged hard on the lapels of his coat, crushing his mouth to hers, moving against him, slipping her hands under the overgarment to claw at his silken back. He groaned against her mouth, and bit at her, making her moan. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, trying to fuse her body into his. She couldn’t believe she was so warm and wet already. He pulled her into him and she practically writhed, never feeling more wanton in her life. And as her hips pressed more firmly into his hips, he jerked away suddenly, panting slightly, her red lipstick smeared around his thin lips like a bruise.

She felt lost then, her back against the cold brick. He wiped his face not indelicately with his shirtsleeve and looked at her the way she had always wanted to be looked at. But when he spoke again, it wasn’t with words of desire. “Miss Granger—Hermione. We cannot. I am your teacher still. And further, you are drunk. You can’t control what your body is doing right now. You can’t think through what this would mean.” She shuddered, releasing a breath to rid herself of the tense knot in her stomach, buried in her hips. It did not unravel.

“Yes. Yes. Of course, Professor. I’m very sorry to have, er, overstepped our boundary.” She hated the way her tongue rested on “our.” She knew nothing of what he wanted, or of what he felt. After their argument, he clearly thought she was little more than the child she used to be. 

He seemed to know the expression in her face, know it boded ill — he took a step as if to reach out, but Hermione turned abruptly and unlocked her apartment door, slamming it behind her as she staggered, still drunk, up the narrow stairs.


	8. Souvenirs

"These are my souvenirs,  
The memory of a lifetime.  
We were wide-eyed with everything,  
Everything around us."

_— Switchfoot, "Souvenirs"_

 

The next morning, Hermione awoke with possibly the worst headache of her life. As she grimaced and pulled herself out of bed, the movement in her stomach sent her straight to the toilet, where she didn’t leave her knees for the next half hour.

When she had exhausted the contents of her stomach (and then some), Hermione lay down on the cold tile of her bathroom, a cold washcloth on her forehead. She didn’t trust herself to do magic quite yet. Gods, what had been in that champagne? As Hermione pondered the raucousness of the evening, she was reminded of Professor Slughorn’s description of Felix Felicis — that it could cause giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence if taken in excess. She wondered if there was a little bit of Felix slipped into the drink, or perhaps a euphoria-inducing elixir, since it wasn’t exactly like she’d been lucky.

A lucky person wouldn’t have pissed off Professor Snape, for example. Or made such a strong move on said professor after just having a conversation about personal boundaries. No, Hermione would have to be more restrained from now on. This was no romantic age-difference love story from a Victorian novel, it was her career, and his, and the new lives they were so desperately trying to start.

At some point, Hermione was able to drag herself off the floor. She showered and dressed in her plain black robes and dabbed a bit of muggle concealer underneath her eyes in a vain attempt to cover the dark circles under her eyes. And then it was time for her most frustrating class: wizarding photography.

She apparated to the front gates of L’Academie and made her way to the art studios, her camera and books in her bag. Upon arriving in class and taking her seat around the large high-top table, a woman swept in wearing a leather jacket and a spiked collar necklace. “Morning, kids,” Professor Lu Richardson said in her American accent. “Thank Artemis it’s Friday.”

Hermione’s photography professor insisted on being called by her first name only, and wore her dark hair in long box braids down to her waist. She often broke the rules of muggle clothing in the classroom, preferring ripped skinny jeans, Doc Martens, and a variety of slinky tank tops while she “engaged her creative soul,” as she liked to say.

Hermione wanted to like her, or maybe desperately wanted to be liked by her, but Hermione had no natural aptitude for photography, and her pictures were shite. Lu’s most frequent advice to Hermione: Relax. Breathe. Don’t try to make what you think a wizarding photo should look like.

So far, their assignments had been fairly basic, and had mainly been focused on developing film the wizard way, so that the photos moved. But last week Lu had told them to take a photo of something terrifying; Hermione had taken a photo of a spider crawling on the floor of her room, even though she had no real fear of spiders. Lu had scolded her gently, “I think you can dig deeper here Hermione. There’s something you’re holding back.” At those words, Hermione did her best to hold back her scowl.

Fridays were history days, and Lu began a short presentation about contemporary French wizarding photography, and how it was inspired largely by the Modernist movement in the 1920s and 30s in Paris. It would usually be fascinating subject matter, but Hermione kept looking out the window, willing herself to not think about Severus Snape. She was so far failing.

At least she didn’t have his class today. But she thought she’d better go and apologize for her behavior the previous evening. Maybe she could bring him a coffee. Maybe…

No. You should not bring him a fucking coffee, Hermione told herself. That was inviting more “mistakes” on her part. They must never be alone together, clearly. Whatever was happening between them was as magnetic as it was ridiculous, stripping them of their self control as well as their clothes.

Hermione opened her notebook to make it look like she was at least trying to pay attention, flipping to the page where she had last written, ““Ron and I move into the Burrow — July 1, 1999.” It was only five years ago, but so much had changed.

In late June, Ginny had set out for Wales for training, as she’d become the newest chaser-in-training for the Holyhead Harpies. “Any luck and I’ll be starting by the fall,” Ginny had told them as she stood with her suitcases packed outside the Burrow. Though Harry and Ginny were closer than ever, the two had accepted their temporary long-distance fate. Besides, Harry wouldn’t be hanging around the Burrow much himself.

He’d been tapped to join a small, elite squad of aurors on a reconnaissance mission that would take them all over Europe, as they scoured for remaining Voldemort supporters among upper-crest pureblood families. Ron, who’d just graduated from the auror program along with Harry, had been offered a position too. Strangely, at least to Hermione, he had declined, instead taking a desk in the Ministry’s auror office.

The day he’d shared this news was cemented in Hermione’s memory; it was also the same day he’d asked her to move in with him. He took her to dinner in London, at a muggle Indian restaurant near Notting Hill that he knew she loved. Over lamb biryani and wine, Ron had taken a break from stuffing his face with garlic naan to tell her about the offer. “So, listen Hermione,” Ron began, nervousness in his expression. “The auror office invited me and Harry to travel around Europe for a few months, on a secret mission.” Hermione had cut him off excitedly, “Ron! That’s great! I knew they’d see how great you are, you just had to give it time. I think this can be really good for us since I’ll be—” “I said no,” Ron interrupted. “I appreciate the support Mione. But I said no.” Hermione tried not to let the surprise show on her face. “But why? I thought that was what you wanted?” Ron shook his head. “I think it’s what Harry’s meant to do. But I can’t imagine leaving England at the moment. I want some time to, to relax, you know? Auror training was rough for me, you know that.” Hermione didn’t say anything, though her expression shifted to one of concern.

Ron pushed his plate forward and cleared his throat, apparently about to say something important. His blue eyes searched her own, and he placed his hand softly on hers. “I want to stay here, Hermione, because I want us to be together. For real, not from miles apart like we’ve been all year. I love you. Move in with me?” He sounded more confident than she’d ever heard him, gone was the awkward, blundering schoolboy, gone, even, was the shell-shocked clumsy teenager she’d kissed just outside of the Chamber of Secrets, when they’d destroyed a horcrux together. His eyes blazed for her, and it was this that calmed her doubts about their longevity as a couple that had seeped in while she was away at Hogwarts.

“Oh Ron,” she had answered, feeling more love for him than she had ever felt for another person. “Yes, of course. I want to be with you and live with you and, well, not cook for you since we both know I’m bollocks at that but—” He didn’t let her finish her sentence before sweeping her up out of her seat and into his embrace right there beside their table in the crowded restaurant. He kissed her then, firmly and lovingly, making her blush when he pulled away slightly to look at her. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?” Hermione proposed. Ron nodded, tossing muggle money on the table and leading her out the doors and into the summer air. They’d spent the night together at a nearby hotel, celebrating with champagne and many more kisses. Thinking about that night was like watching a movie version of her life.

“Hermione, did you have some feelings about persecuted wizard artists in the 1920s?” a voice asked her with an amused chuckle. Hermione snapped back into the present, realizing she had just sighed openly during Lu’s lecture. “My apologies, Professor Rich— I mean, er, Lu. Just spaced for a second,” she admitted. Lu raised an eyebrow but continued with her lecture, which was apparently wrapping up. “Well, if the savior of England’s wizarding world is zoning out, perhaps we better cut out for the day. It is Friday after all,” she winked in Hermione’s direction, causing her embarrassment to increase. “Now remember, practice meditating before you take your photos this weekend, really lean into what the world might be trying to teach you!” And with that, Lu swept her wand around the room and piles of paper and film tidied themselves in their cabinets. The class filed out, with Hermione near the front. She smiled apologetically at Lu as she left, but did not stop to say anything further. She just needed some Ron-free air, for Merlin’s sake. 

Just as Hermione made it out the doors and onto the quad, a shriek of her name stopped her in her tracks. She looked around for the noise. “Hermione Granger, you little liar,” Neal’s voice rang out from behind her. “It’s your birthday today, you sneak! When were you going to tell us?”

In tow with Neal was Sloan, secretly her favorite two of their bunch of friends. Sloan especially, with her relaxed California take on life, was extremely refreshing. She loved to tease Hermione, getting under her skin while also forcing her to take life a little less seriously. She reminded Hermione a little of Tonks, she thought with a pang, an effect intensified by Sloan’s love of pastel hair colors. Today her long beachy waves were pale pink, making her look otherworldly in contrast with her grey eyes.

“Earth to Hermione Granger! Hello!” Neal continued to shout in her face, pulling her back into the moment. “Okay, okay, no need to keep shouting! Gods this hangover has been one of the worst of my life,” Hermione said miserably. Neal tilted her head, “Hangover? Is that where you went off to yesterday? Ahem, when you were *supposed* to be meeting us?”

Hermione grimaced, “Yeah...about that. I’m very sorry I flaked, I honestly don’t even know what happened yesterday, I was like a different person. It was absurd.” Sloan smirked, “Are we to understand that Hermione Granger is lightening up a little?” Hermione shook her head vehemently. “Absolutely not. Right now I don’t feel lightened up, I just feel a mess.”

Neal slug an arm around her shoulders as the trio walked through the courtyard. “Well, we know just the thing to get you out of that funk. We’re taking you out tonight to celebrate.” Hermione groaned, “All I want right now is a hot bath and a nap.” “Lucky for you, we have plenty of time for that. Then we’ll all rally and go out clubbing later,” Sloan said mischievously. “I know just the place.”

Neal quirked an eyebrow at Sloan. “How is it you know Paris like you’ve lived here your whole life?” He asked. She shrugged. “It’s just part of my charm.” Hermione thought about what she would wear, and about the tiny shower that awaited her at home. As if sensing her thoughts, Sloan chimed in, “Hermione, as part of your birthday treat, I am inviting you over to my apartment for preparations. And when I say my, what I really mean is the one my parents are renting for me. Let’s just say, there’s a clawfoot bathtub.”

That was enough for Hermione. They were just outside the campus gates, and Sloan grabbed her hand and Neal’s. “Away we go,” she shrieked, before turning on the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know it's been forever, but I'm back into this story & am hoping to publish a follow up to this chapter in the next couple days. Thank y'all for bearing with me & still reading/commenting on this story, I love you all truly.


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